His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted. "Worse," he repeated.
"It's supposed to be about you." I was babbling now, the confession spilling out of me. "My devotion, my service, it's supposed to be selfless. But it isn't. It never was. I kneel because kneeling for you makes me feel complete. I serve because serving you gives my life meaning. I let you use me because being used by you is the only time I feel real. That's not a sacrifice. That'sjust... wanting. And I've spent thirty-two years pretending it was something more noble because admitting I want it makes me..."
"Makes you what?"
"Pathetic. Desperate. Needy. Everything I've worked so hard not to be."
Algerone was silent for a long moment. Then his thumb traced along my cheekbone, almost gently. "That," he said quietly. "That's what I wanted to hear."
I stared at him, not understanding.
"I don't want your guilt," he said. "I don't want your penance. I don't want you kneeling because you think you owe me something. I want you kneeling because you want to be there. Because it fulfills you. Because the wanting is real."
"But what I did to Imogen..."
"Was unforgivable." He didn't soften it. "And I haven't forgiven you. I may never forgive you. But that's separate from this. You don't get to use your guilt as a reason to submit. That cheapens it for both of us."
His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, gripping firmly.
"When you kneel for me, I want it to be because you need it. Not because you're paying off a debt. When I use you, I want to know you're not just enduring it out of obligation. I want to know you're craving it as much as I am."
My breath caught. "You crave it?"
"Did you think this was one-sided?" A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Did you think I didn't want you every time you knelt at my feet to help me dress? Every time you put your hands on my body during those massages? I've wanted you for thirty-two years, Maxime. But I wanted you to want it back. Not as duty or service, but as desire."
"I do," I whispered. "I always have."
"Then that's where we start." His grip on my neck tightened. "Not with forgiveness or absolution, but with the truth. You want to be mine, and I want you to be mine, and we stop pretending it's anything other than that."
"And Imogen? The boys?"
"We'll deal with that separately. The guilt is yours to carry, and you'll carry it. But you don't get to hide behind it. You don't get to use it as an excuse to disappear into service. You're going to stand beside me, not kneel behind me. You're going to be my partner, my equal in everything except this." His eyes darkened. "And when you do kneel, it's going to be because you're desperate for it. Not because you're atoning."
I couldn't breathe. This wasn't what I'd expected. This wasn't anything I'd prepared for.
"Do you understand?" His voice hardened. "I need to know that you understand."
"Yes." The word came out barely audible.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I understand." I swallowed hard. "You want my submission. But not my guilt."
"Good." He released my neck and stepped back. "Now. On your knees."
I dropped without hesitation, my body responding before my mind caught up. The hardwood bit into my knees, but I didn't care. I looked up at him, waiting.
He studied me for a long moment.
"Why are you kneeling?"
"Because I want to." My voice was stronger now. "Because being here, at your feet, is where I belong. Not as penance, but as desire."
Satisfaction flickered across his face. He crossed to the leather armchair by the window and lowered himself into it, stretching his damaged leg. Then he reached for one of the decorativepillows on the nearby settee and set it on the floor beside his chair.
"Come here."
I rose and went to him, sinking back down onto the pillow. He guided my head to rest against his thigh, his fingers threading through my hair.
